


Family Ties, Family Business

by clv44



Series: Tales from the Wildemount Frontier [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Western, Bar Fight, Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Gen, Guns, I've been watching too many Westerns on Netflix, Native American Character(s), Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clv44/pseuds/clv44
Summary: Fjord and Grog are an unlikely pair, but they both have similar problems: their relatives are assholes.
Relationships: Fjord & Grog Strongjaw, Grog Strongjaw & Pike Trickfoot
Series: Tales from the Wildemount Frontier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612876
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	1. I'm New In Town and it Gets Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger walks into a saloon. The bouncer backs him up in a bar fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from John Mulaney.

Fjord turned his collar up against the wind and pulled his bandana over his mouth. He let out a muffled curse as he led his mare by the reins, a blindfold keeping her eyes safe from the flying dust. It had been bad enough that the night on the plains was pitch black, the stars covered by clouds so he couldn't even tell which way was North. Now, a dust storm had kicked up, forcing him to stumble forward blindly, hoping to not trip on a rock or run into a cactus. He really hated his life sometimes.

His horse nickered nervously and Fjord gently stroked her muzzle to let her know she wasn't alone. He didn't know how long they could last in this; that blindfold may have stopped the horse from going blind, but it wouldn't stop her from having her nostrils filled up with sand. He squinted into the storm, hoping against all the odds that he might see a lantern shining through. Lanterns would mean people and that would at least mean he wouldn't be alone out here, no matter what happened. No such luck; the dust was as thick as a sea-side fog and about as forgiving on visibility. He tugged the reins forward and led his horse further into the unknown.

He had never learned the name of the mare he now claimed as his horse. He hadn't caught her name from whoever her previous owner might've been. He'd just taken her by the reins, leading her around the dead bodies filled with bullets and the burning wagons the desperados hadn't bothered to take with them. The ground was bathed in the blood of men, women and children, the dark red soaked into the yellow sand. Fjord hadn't bothered looking among the dead for familiar faces; he doubted he'd recognize any of them and he didn't want to recognize any of them by chance. It'd just be more pain to add to the considerable amount he already had. He just kept his eyes on the horizon, one hand on his pistol and the other wrapped around the reins. They'd been walking and riding for almost a week. Their food was short. Their water skins were empty. And now this.

Fjord swore again at his luck. Or rather his seeming lack of it. Stranded orphan wandering blind in a dust storm; if that wasn't the perfect description for someone hated by God, he didn't know what was. He felt his foot come down on something that cracked under his weight. He crouched down and squinted, burying his hand in the dust and brining it up to his face. Poking out through the handful of sand, he saw the remains of a small wooden pipe. Somebody was sorely missing their tobacco fix. Fjord decided to take this as a good sign; he hadn't seen any settlements around when the storm had first hit. If he'd come across this pipe, it could mean that he was closer to civilization. At least he sorely hoped so.

He dropped the broken wood into his saddle bag and kept plowing through, a new, hopeful energy filling his every step, even as his boots sank into the loose desert sand. He wondered if he'd ever see a landscape not covered in flying sand again and his mind conjured up an image of his skeleton half buried in the dirt. Left for dead, just like he'd left the others in his wagon train. He supposed it might be karma or something similar. He'd never gone in for divine justice, but he supposed if there was anybody who would be struck by heavenly lightening, it was him.

Fjord was so caught up in thoughts of his own misfortune he almost didn't hear the shouting. He came to a halt, straining his ears. There it was again, a faint holler over the mighty rush of wind.

"Hello!" Fjord called out, barely hearing his own voice behind his bandana. He pushed it down and called out again, getting a mouth full of sand for his trouble.

"To your left!" he thought he heard above the noise. He whipped around and saw the faintest of lights, pushing through the clouds trying to smother it. Fjord's heart leapt and he pulled on the mare's reins.

It felt like an eternity of trudging before they finally met the source of the light: an impossibly skinny old man standing outside what looked to be a stable. The man wordlessly slid open the huge door and Fjord led his mare inside, chased by the clouds of swirling dust. The old man scampered back inside and slid the door back shut, encapsulating them in blissful silence.

"Sweet baby Jesus on high!" the old man cried, taking the reins from Fjord and leading the mare over to one of several empty stables lining the walls. "I ain't seen a storm like this in thirty years! Bad luck you were caught out there; good luck you found me, though. The hell were you even doin' out there in the middle of goddamn nowhere?" He said all this as he took the blindfold and saddle off the mare and the reins out of her mouth. He moved to grab a bucket of water next to the stable and filled the trough with a satisfying _glug, glug, glug._ Fjord shook the considerable amount of dust off his ankle-length coat and batted his hat, exposing his jet-black hair. His mother's hair, he was told.

"Wasn't exactly by choice," he explained, his low bass tones seeming to reverberate off the walls. "Got turned around and didn't have no map. Anyway, you're one to talk. What'd ya set up a stable in the middle of nowhere for?"

The old man turned to look at him and Fjord held his breath. His dark skin didn't really do him any favors around here, where Indian attacks were the stuff of campfire stories told when the ranch hands were in a scary mood. To his credit, the old man didn't blink an eye.

"This here's about ten miles outside Berleben," he said, brushing the mare's coat. "Old backwater kind of shithole. Good if you're lookin' for a drink and a warm bed, but not much else. I wouldn't even risk the women there; men are known to walk in with a healthy set of bits and walk out with no bits at all."

Fjord chuckled, his first in awhile. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, seriously. I probably woulda died out there 'f you hadn't flagged me down."

The old man put the brush away and started working on the hooves, picking out huge clumps of dirt from the sole. "Ain't no probably 'bout it," he replied. "Like I said, ain't seen nothin' like that in a long time. Y' can feel free to stay here until the mornin'. Storm should be over by then. No charge for the horse; just tell yer friends when they ask who did such a fine job on this lovely mare that it was Zorth who done it."

"Of course." Fjord nodded, eternally grateful that the old man hadn't asked for payment. Maybe God or the universe or whatever didn't hate him that much after all.

The storm had died down as Zorth had predicted. Once the mare had been rubbed down and watered and Fjord's own water skin had been filled to bursting, he set off in the direction Zorth had pointed out to him.

"Shouldn't take y' more 'n an hour," he said. "Hour 'n' a half at most if you're gallopin'."

An hour and twenty-nine minutes later, Fjord slowed his horse to a walk just outside Berleben. Zorth hadn't been kidding when he called the place a shithole; the path into town was lined by houses that had long-since deteriorated into dilapidated wrecks. Nearer to the center of town wasn't much better; even taking into consideration last night's storm, the outside of most of the shops looked as though they hadn't been dusted off in years. Every building his saw needed a new lick of paint and oftentimes he couldn't even tell what the buildings were selling, the writing on the signs having long faded. It was almost too quiet, like any noise the town could've been making was being smothered. He saw nobody but a few vagabonds in raggedy clothes lining the road, bowls and cups for loose change sitting next to them. They eyed him through drooping lids, some of them sadly, some of them hungrily, but none of them made to approach him.

Even though none of the buildings had readable signs, Fjord could spot a saloon from miles away, so he sidled up and hitched his horse to a post out front. The sound of a badly-tuned piano plinked weakly out the doors and it didn't get much louder when Fjord walked in, the swinging doors squeaking painfully on their hinges. A dozen eyes glanced up from their tankards, cards and dice, eying him like he'd just trespassed on their personal property. Even the pitifully quiet piano was brought to silence as the player turned around to catch a glimpse at the dark stranger who'd just crossed their doorstep.

Fjord met their gazes individually, which didn't take long as there were only about fifteen customers and three whores. No use setting yourself up to look like easy pickins. The only pair of eyes he couldn't quite meet were those of the bouncer's, a veritable giant of a man with a thick beard that went all the way down to the base of his neck, almost like he was trying to make up for the complete lack of hair on his head. He wore a simple button-down with the sleeves torn off, showcasing muscles the size of boulders. The big man cocked an eyebrow at him and Fjord looked away slowly; no need to make the man think he was afraid of him.

Fjord sauntered up to the bar and the piano started back up with a horribly out of tune rendition of "Man of Constant Sorrow," though he could sense that everybody's eyes were still strained on his back. It must not be often that they got strangers going through their town, much less ones as dark as he was.

"Can I help you?" Fjord turned his attention to the bartender, a skinny man whose thin face was draped by locks of flowing brown hair.

"Sure." Fjord placed his last remaining silver piece on the counter. "You can get me a drink for starters. Then maybe you can tell me where I can find a trapper's station. Got some items I mean to turn inta coin."

The bartender nodded, taking his money and pouring him a shot of something dark brown. Fjord got the feeling that around these parts nobody was too particular about what kind of drink they got as long as it got them drunk.

"Trapper station's a little ways down the west road," said the bartender, wiping the sweat off his brow with a rag. "Red buildin'. Or, at least, used to be red. Haven't checked what color it might be now."

Fjord nodded his thanks and was about to knock back his drink when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. A tan woman with golden eyes and very exposed cleavage sauntered up beside him, laying a soft hand on his cheek.

"Well," she cooed, biting her lip as she stared at him. "Ain't you just the finest looking specimen I've seen come across my path. I reckon I could cut my hand on that jaw of yours. And that lip scar. Ooh! I'd like to break that one back open with my teeth, if it please you." She leaned over near his ear and snapped her teeth shut with a playful giggle. Fjord cocked an eyebrow and knocked back his shot. The taste was musky and it burned all the way down, but he could feel the numbing effects almost immediately.

"You say that to every half-breed that passes through?" he asked. To her credit, the woman didn't even flinch, but instead draped her arm around his muscled shoulders and rubbed his chest.

"Only the ones who could leave me ruined." She smirked. Her voice was sweet as honey, but about as tempting to Fjord as a glass of lukewarm lemonade. He was about to tell her off when he heard the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. He looked over his shoulder to find that a group of five had seen fit to abandon their game of liar's dice and were now making their way over to the bar. Fjord turned his attention back to his glass, even though it was now empty.

"Hey, Avantika!" One of the men shouted at the woman next to Fjord and she jumped. "My time ain't up yet. You still owe me a silver's worth!"

Avantika gave him what Fjord guessed was supposed to be a soothing smile. "Don't worry, baby, I'll get back to you. Momma's just scopin' out her next target right now."

That answer apparently didn't satisfy. The man grabbed hold of her wrist and yanked her away from the bar. She lost her footing and the man practically dragged her across the floor.

"You can start huntin' when you're done with me!" the man spat in her face, his mustache bristling with rage. "Ain't no half-breed wannabe gunslinger gonna come before me."

Up until this point, Fjord had been trying to ignore what was going on. He didn't really care if the lady got roughed up a bit; that wasn't his business. He told himself he didn't care what the man called him; he'd been called worse than half-breed. But something inside him snapped clean in two; maybe it was the pressure of being completely on his own. Maybe it was leftover tension from going through the storm. Maybe the shot had been a lot stronger than he thought. Whatever the reason, he found himself flinging his shot glass across the room, straight at the man's face. It smashed into a dozen shards that flew in all directions. The man screamed and clutched at his face, blood pouring out from between his fingers.

The shattering glass was like a trigger being pulled on a gun of chaos. Everybody jumped from their seats and started hitting somebody, anybody. The bleeding man's friends rushed Fjord, knives and liquor bottles clenched in their fists. Fjord planted his feet, hands clenched into fists, and took a swing at the first man who came his way. It caught him right in the jaw and Fjord swore he heard something crack. His victor was short-lived, however, as the other three men rammed straight into him, slamming him against the bar and holding him by the arms. The third man punched him in the gut, driving the air painfully from his lungs. Fjord wheezed, trying desperately to take in air with shallow breaths, but his lungs weren't having it, pushing the air right back up. The man's fist slammed into him again, this time against his cheek, and Fjord felt the skin split. He braced for another blow only to hear a startled wail and a loud _CRASH._ He looked up to find the large bouncer standing over him and the man who'd been hitting him lying in the splintered remains of a broken table. The bouncer glared down at Fjord and the two men holding back his arms.

"Stay out of this, Grog!" one of his captors told the bouncer, though Fjord could hear the shaking in his voice. "He started it; we're just finishing it."

"Sam started it," Grog corrected, his voice so deep Fjord could swear it vibrated the floor. " _I'm_ finishing it." He took the other two men by the scruff of the necks and threw them across the room as if they were two sacks of apples. One crashed through the wall, getting stuck half-way through. The other landed on the piano, breaking it in half, causing the player to hit him over the head with his stool. Fjord wanted to thank the giant man, but he was still trying to get his lungs to work with him on the breathing agenda. Besides, Grog had already moved on to another fight, where he promptly knocked the heads of the two combatants together so hard they immediately fell to the floor unconscious.

Fjord staggered out through the swinging doors and into the street, still gasping for air. The sounds of fighting were even now quieting down behind him; presumably Grog was doing his job of getting everyone to settle down. By any broken bones necessary.

Eventually, Fjord's breathing became much easier and he straightened himself up, surveying the area around him. He saw that one of the bar's patrons had been tossed out into the dirt. Several of his teeth were missing and his vest was splattered with blood. Fjord's eyes were caught by the spotless white hat that lay beside the unconscious man. He cocked an eyebrow. _Why not?_ he thought. Literally everything else he had was either second hand or salvaged. Plus, it'd be nice to not be stuck with all black attire. He scooped up the hat, popped it securely on his head, and sauntered down the road to find the trapper's post.

A few minutes later, he was swinging himself back on his horse, a few 'coon skins poorer and a few silver pieces richer. The sounds of violence in the saloon had completely died away now and a few other unconscious customers had joined the first in the middle of the road. Fjord clicked his tongue and the mare started clopping along at a walk.

"Wait." Fjord pulled on the reins as Grog came out of the saloon. "Where're ya goin'?"

Fjord shrugged. "Not sure. Anywhere not here, I guess. Thanks for the save, by the way. Few more licks them boys woulda had me eatin' my own teeth."

"I don't like bullies," Grog said simply. Fjord didn't know what to make of that. "Can I come with you?"

Fjord frowned. "Ain't you got a job here?" It was Grog's turn to shrug.

"Not much exciting happens 'round here. Yer the first in awhile to stir shit up."

Fjord couldn't help but smile. "You got your own horse?"

"Out in the back."

"Got any food you can bring?"

"Got some jerky. Bottle of whiskey."

"Got a gun?"

"Big 'ol shotgun." He grinned. "And an ax."

Fjord paused, thinking. "Alright. Meet me east outside of town in twenty minutes. If you're late, I'm leavin' without ya."

Twenty minutes later, the sun glaring down on them hot as a woman's wrath, Fjord and Grog road off to God knows where to face God knows what. Grog didn't care; he was finally going to see some adventure. Fjord didn't care; anywhere was better than where he'd come from.


	2. Friends Don't Let Friends Stay Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grog pesters Fjord about his past and is visited by his own.

Fjord still doesn't get why he brought Grog along with him. Maybe after the bar fight he could no longer fool himself into thinking he was alright on his own. Maybe it was his simple charm. He chased reasons around in circles in his head. He never got ahold of one that explained it.

Fjord looked up from where he was cleaning his nails with his hunting knife in the light of the campfire. Grog was snoring loudly, his face covered with his wide-brimmed hat. The bottle of whiskey he'd brought with him was sitting beside him, half full of golden brown alcohol. Fjord frowned; it had been two weeks since they left Berleben and Grog drank like a doctor was coming to saw his leg off. How was that whole bottle not empty already?

Fjord got up and went to pick the bottle off the ground. Grog's hand caught Fjord's wrist in a firm grip.

"You could just ask," Grog remarked. Fjord looked where he'd been caught; Grog wasn't squeezing, but Fjord could feel the power in his giant fist. Enough to crush Fjord's wrist into so many pieces it would never heal. And while Grog hadn't hurt him over anything yet, this seemed to be a line he shouldn't cross. He swallowed.

"May I please have a swig?" he asked cautiously.

"Sure." Grog let go of his wrist and handed him the bottle. "Finish it off, if ya wan' to."

Fjord frowned, more suspicious. "There's a whole half a bottle still here."

Grog shrugged. "There's always more whiskey."

Fjord took a good gulp. The drink was warm, which wasn't ideal, but it filled him with a fuzzy numbness from head to foot. He thanked Grog and gave him back the bottle.

"So, where're ya from?" Grog asked, taking a mouthful from the bottle himself. Fjord almost wanted to laugh. You'll have to get me a lot drunker than that, big guy.

"California," Fjord replied. Not untruthful, just not specific. It was a comfortable way to rest his conscience while still keeping safe.

"Yeah, but like, where?" Grog asked. Shit.

"South," he replied. _If he asks where south, I swear to God..._

Grog just nodded. "Any family? Ma? Pa?"

Fjord shrugged. At least that he could answer honestly. He didn't know where his mother had gone once she'd given birth to him. His father hadn't been around for the birth in the first place. He didn't have anybody except...

"Y' don' talk much," Grog observed. "How come?"

"Never had anybody to talk to, I guess," he remarked. "Besides, not much talking to be done in a wagon train-" Fjord snapped his mouth shut; he wanted to smack himself. The stuff that Grog gave him must've been stronger than he thought. Grog, however, didn't pay this remark any special heed. He took another drink of his whiskey.

"That sucks," he remarked. "At least in the bar I had to talk to drunk idgits to convince them to leave." Fjord nodded, trying to not act like he'd let anything slip. He absently scraped his cuticles back with the edge of his knife.

"How come you was travelin with a wagon train?"

Fjord thought about it for a while. "Was just the best option, I guess. No parents, no trade. Anybody can be the caboose for a wagon train as long as they're handy with a pistol."

"Not everybody's good with a pistol," Grog pointed out. "Yer pretty special in that, Fjord. I just use a shotgun cause I can't hit shit. If you can hit somebody with a pistol, that's pretty good."

Fjord didn't know what to make of that.

"What about you?" he asked, picking up a stick to stoke the fire. "Where're you from? Who're _your_ folks?" Grog didn't speak for a while, staring into the flames. Fjord thought maybe he'd zoned out.

"I was raised by my uncle," Grog said at last. The large man sounded unusually solemn. "Well, at least that's what we called him. I was born in a gang. Of outlaws, y'know. Never knew who my real ma and pa were, but our leader always told us to call him Uncle Kevdak."

"Sounds creepy," Fjord remarked. "Cultish."

Grog shrugged. "Just what happened."

"And two of these bandits were your parents? Presumably?"

"If they were, they never said nothin." Grog took another swig of whiskey. "Could've been they picked me up as a baby or something. I dunno. Stopped carin' after a while. The whole group became family. Taught me to swing an ax, to shoot a gun, to rob a bank. They were alright."

"But you're not with them now," Fjord observed. Grog shook his head.

"I was always the soft one," he admitted. "The group softie. I would always pet the animals and say goodbye before we cooked 'em. I would tip the whores whenever we were out for a night. And I didn't wanna kill kids." Grog paused here to take a drink. Fjord felt the silence weighing heavy on him and felt as though it would kill him if he broke it. Only the crackling logs had anything to say.

"We stopped in Berleben a few years back. I got super wasted and by the next morning they'd left me behind. Matthew got me a job at his bar, though, so that was alright."

"Not too torn up about it?" Fjord asked. Grog shook his head.

"The more time I spent away from them, the more I realized that they hadn't been all nice to me. They'd tease me, sure, but there were other times they'd just be mean. I'm kind of glad they left me behind. Now that I'm with you, I can start a different adventure." Grog smiled. It was a strangely sweet smile for such a large man.

"Yeah," Fjord agreed, feeling just the slightest bit uncomfortable. He had gotten the feeling that Grog was just using him to get to the next adventure. He would go along with him as far as he felt like and then leave once he found something more interesting. This idea of a future adventure, the new sense that Grog had attached himself to him, was uncomfortably close to friendship. Fjord wasn't hot on having friends.

"I'm gonna go to sleep," he said, flipping onto his side and covering his head with his Stetson.

"Alrighty." Fjord heard Grog shuffling under his blanket. "G'night."

"G'night." Now they were exchanging g'nights? What next? Get a dog together? Fjord fell asleep quickly, the popping of the fire lulling into slumber.

* * *

_Fjord ducked another bullet that sailed past him. He slipped out from behind the wagon and took aim. The desperados circled their wall of wagons, hooting and hollering and keeping up a constant stream of fire. Bullets ripped through the wagon covers, blowing holes into crates and barrels of supplies. Fucking idiots. Wasn't that what they were here for?_

_Fjord took a steadying breath, training onto one thief on a jet-black horse. He inhaled again, held it and squeezed the trigger._

_The man practically flew off his horse, his head blown clean off. Blood and bits of brain flew through the air and soaked the sand._

_"Got one, Vandran!" Fjord whipped around to look for the proud smile on his mentor's face. But Vandran wasn't where he should be, keeping the passengers safe. He looked around, scanning the crowd pressed together behind the wagons, but he didn't see Vandran anywhere._

_"Vandran!" he yelled. He wondered if it could be heard over the ruckus of battle. He shouted louder, "VANDRAN!" No answer._

_Fjord worked his way along the edge of the wagon wall, looking for his mentor while firing blindly in between cover._

_"Have you seen Vandran?" he asked an old man with a rifle at his shoulder._

_"He's over there!" he shouted just before his face was blown off. Fjord could feel the blood splatter on his cheek. He nearly puked, but instead he returned fire, catching a rider right between his eyes._

_He whipped around to where the old man had pointed, but didn't see Vandran. In fact, he didn't see anybody. The interior of the wagon wall was empty. Fjord frowned and looked down; that's when the bodies appeared in front of him. They completely covered the ground, overlapping each other, soaking the ground with blood. Children with missing jaws lay in the arms of their mothers, who had missing legs. Men had hands over gunshot wounds they had died trying to close up._

_Fjord felt the bile rise in his throat, but he still held it down, even as he fell to his knees, shaking all over. He had been responsible for protecting these people. Vandran had trusted him to keep them safe. Now, not one of them still lived. Underneath him lay the body of a man, still holding on to his pistol. It looked as though the man had shot himself in the head, too scared to face whatever the bandits might've done if they'd caught him. Fjord pried the gun from his grasp and held it to his temple with a shaking hand. Maybe he'd see Vandran, he thought. Be able to say he was sorry._

_Suddenly, the earth shook beneath the carpet of corpses. The bodies shifted, parting like a fucked-up parody of the Red Sea. Fjord felt himself being shifted along with them, like whole pieces of earth were moving._

_Finally, the ground settled. Fjord was afraid to move; in the middle of all the bodies, emerging from sand, was a giant eye, a great black slit splitting the yellow iris down the center. Fjord looked down at it, standing on the edge of the giant lid. It seemed to look back at him._

_"WATCHING," boomed a deep voice._

_"Did you do this?" Fjord asked, gesturing to the bodies._

_"WATCHING," the voice said again._

* * *

Fjord woke up vomiting. His bile rocketed up forcefully from his stomach. It tasted salty.

"Too much to drink last night?" asked Grog, putting a giant hand on his shoulder and patting his back. Fjord didn't answer; he didn't dare in case he had another round of vomit. He was still shaking when Grog pushed a water skin into his hand. That was the most intense dream he'd ever had. He'd had nightmares about that day before, but this was on a whole nother level. What was with the carpet of bodies? What was that giant eye? Did that booming voice belong to the eye? And how come he hadn't been able to find Vandran?

"Drink, for God's sake," Grog prodded, taking a gentle hold on Fjord's wrist and guiding the water to his mouth. Fjord tipped the sin up and squeezed a shot into his mouth. The freshness of the water seemed to wash away whatever was salty in his bile, because after a few gulps his throat felt clean.

"You alright?" Grog asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

"I'm fine." Fjord waved him away, even though he was struggling to stand with his knocking knees. "Just, had a bad dream, is all."

Grog didn't say anything, but his eyes were glued to Fjord as he rolled up his blanket and strapped it to the back of his mare's saddle.

"Are we goin?" Fjord snapped, wishing that Grog would stop looking at him like he was about to fall apart at any second. "C'mon! We're only an hour away from Bramblewood. We'll get a drink, get in a fight and find a new job." Grog seemed reluctant as he mounted his shire stallion, but Fjord pushed forward ahead of him, forcing him to catch up.

The hour-long ride was spent in silence. Fjord tried not to think about how Grog was staring at him, with concern he didn't want and pity he didn't need. All the while, his thoughts kept flitting back to that dream. The bodies. The blood. The eye. The rumbling voice.

_WATCHING._

Watching what? Watching _him?_ What for?

Fjord shook his head. It was just a dream, he told himself. That eye wasn't real. The voice was in your head. There's no giant eye in the middle of the desert calling to you. These thoughts did nothing to quell the shivers that voice spent down his spine.

 _"Welcome to Bramblewood!"_ the sign said just outside the town. It was a considerably more pleasant sight than Berleben; the buildings were coated with fresh paint, people went about their errands in a happy thrum of activity and there were even a few children playing Cowboys and Indians. Fjord found himself chuckling at that one; which one did he qualify as, he wondered.

Fjord and Grog found the saloon immediately and strode up. A few people eyed him suspiciously as he tied his horse to the post outside, but Grog shot them a look and they became suddenly interested in their shoes or the sky. Fjord didn't know how he felt about that; it was good of Grog to be looking out for him, but at the same time Fjord almost thrived on their scathing frowns and searching eyes. It was another barrier between him and the world, another excuse to not get too attached for too long.

Grog shadowed Fjord as they stepped into the saloon. Some people shot them a look, noting Fjord's skin and Grog's massive bulk, but they didn't draw that much attention. There were stranger-looking people than them in the building. A woman so withered she reminded Fjord of a dried apple was talking with a man who was covered in soot and had most of his hair missing. A weathered-looking man with an eyepatch was sipping whiskey with a hand that had only three fingers.

Fjord and Grog seated themselves at the bar and ordered their shots.

"Got any work around here?" he asked the barman as he filled their glasses. "We're lookin' for bounties."

The man wrinkled his nose. "Might be the Lawmaster's got somethin', but we don't get many unsavory types around these parts."

"Shame," Fjord remarked. "Unsavory types make life interesting." He knocked back his drink. The barman sniffed in disgust and went to tend the other barflies.

"Think we'll move on?" asked Grog, who had also done away with his shot and was now reaching behind the counter for the bottle. He popped the cork with his teeth and poured them another round.

"We'll see what the Lawmaster's got first," Fjord told him, though he had the feeling that this would be a very short stop. This town was way too nice to be having law troubles, much less anything that required a bounty hunter's attention.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Fjord and Grog spun in their seats. The man with the eyepatch was looking straight at them from across the room. "GROG FUCKING STRONGJAW!"

Fjord flicked a glance at Grog. The big man was still as stonework, his shot glass clutched tightly in his hand. The man in the eyepatch came over to them, smacking Grog on the shoulder.

"How the hell are ya?" he crowed. "Surprised to see you. We thought you was dead for certain!"

"Dead?" Fjord looked at Grog. Grog wasn't looking back at him, but neither was he looking at the eyepatch man. He was staring off into space.

"Ol' Grog "Softjaw" got on Uncle Kevdak's bad side," the man said, taking the glass from Grog's hand and downing it in one gulp. "Didn't like what Uncle Kev was doin' with some whore, so they got into a little scrap. Ol' "Softjaw" couldn't take it, though, and he keeled over in the dirt. Fat lot of good that did the hooker, though. Kev still did what he wanted anyway. Sorry, Groggy."

Fjord saw something inside Grog snap a half-second before his giant hands slammed the man's face into the counter. Grog moved with a speed Fjord didn't think was possible for a man his size, grabbing the eyepatch man by his collar and bringing his face down on the edge of the bar with a sickening _CRUNCH!_

Fjord just stared at Grog, more terrified of the man before him than he had been before. He'd never seen anybody move with such speed, hit with such force. This man could probably kill him with a single finger.

Grog was breathing heavily, but was still sitting as he had before as if nothing had happened. Fjord heard a groan and looked to see the eyepatch man slowly rising to his feet. Fjord's mouth fell open even lower; what kind of man is even _conscious_ after a hit like that? Much less has the strength to get up?

"You sonofabitch," the man growled through what sounded like several broken teeth. Grog didn't move as the man wound up a punch. Fjord could never swear to how it happened later, but one moment the man was lining up a shot to Grog's jaw. The next moment Grog had thrown the man out of the bar like he was a pillow. Fjord could do nothing but blink as Grog sat back down and asked the barman gruffly for another round. He was just about to knock it back when a call from outside caught their ears.

"GROG!" The voice that called was harsh and commanding. "GET OUT HERE! UNCLE KEVDAK WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK WITH YOU!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critiques on prose are always appreciated and begged for.


	3. Kill Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grog and Fjord fight Kevdak.

Fjord wondered what higher power he'd pissed off to land him in water this hot. One second, he'd been having a drink with Grog. Next thing he knew, what sounded like a whole band of outlaws was waiting outside.

Grog didn't move from his seat; he seemed frozen, staring into nothing.

"GROG!" the voice outside shouted again. "If you don't get your sorry ass out here in ten seconds, I swear to God and Baby Jesus I will pump so much lead into this place you'll think it was a mine shaft! Come on out!"

Grog rose slowly from his bar stool, his face never changing from his thousand-yard stare. Part of Fjord told him to reach out and stop him, to get them both out as fast as he could, but he made himself stay. This wasn't his fight. No need to risk his neck.

Grog went through the flapping, bat-wing doors and the voice spoke again.

"There he is! Old 'Softjaw'!" Fjord heard a dozen clicking guns. "Now now, boys and girls. Let's talk this out first."

Fjord grimaced; he couldn't help himself. He crept up to the door and peaked over. Grog stood on the saloon porch before a company of fifteen grizzly men and women, every single one of whom had their guns pointed directly at Grog's chest. The man in front of the posse was big and mean-looking. His bald head and face were covered in white scars. He was nearly as big as Grog and he had two double-barreled shotguns slung across his back. This must be Uncle Kevdak. The man dismounted and slowly approached Grog, who still hadn't moved.

"I understand if you're angry, Grog," Kevdak said softly, as if trying to talk down a mad black bear. "But I swear I never meant to kill ya, just rough you up a little, remind you who's in charge. You were weak back then, but look at you now! Goddamn! You could probably carry a horse with one hand! I'd happily take you back, Grog; hell, I never wanted to let you go in the first place. Come back to the fold, son! It'll be like you never left." He held out his hand and Grog looked down at it. The back of his bald head was tomato red and a vein pulsed in his neck. Fjord could tell he was about to snap. Then, he'd be gunned down by Kevdak's men.

 _Better me than him,_ thought Fjord, but the words rang forced and cruel. He gritted his teeth. _You are not stupid enough to get involved in this!_

"The whore." Grog's voice was tight. "What'd you do to her?"

Kevdak snorted. "Aw, c'mon, Grog. You're still hung up on that bitch? I fucked her as I pleased, alright? And she got paid for it. That's how an exchange like that works, son."

"She was screaming." Grog's voice was dangerously low. Fjord's hand went to the grip of his pistol. _Don't do this..._

"It happens when they enjoy it sometimes," Kevdak countered.

"And crying."

Kevdak sighed, like Grog had disappointed him. "Still can't let it go, huh? I should've expected, I guess." Without warning, Kevdak grabbed Grog by the throat and slammed him to the ground. Grog struggled, trying to pry Kevdak's fingers from his neck, but the man's grip was too strong even for him.

"One last chance, Groggy." Kevdak raised a jagged hunting knife above his head, letting the sun glint off the razor-sharp edge. "You gonna stick with the family or are you gonna die?"

"Neither!" Fjord cried as he leapt through the bat-wing doors and shot the knife right out of Kevdak's hand. He ducked back inside as Grog kicked Kevdak off his chest and followed Fjord back through the doors.

"Fucking fire, dipshits!"

The doors were practically torn to splinters by a volley of gunfire. The rounds kept coming, ripping up the floors, shattering glasses and striking a few unfortunate customers as they fled for the rear exit. _They've gotta reload eventually,_ Fjord thought, _then we can get out._

Finally, the bullets stopped coming and Fjord could hear fifteen guns all reloading at once.

"C'mon," he whispered to Grog on the other side of the door. "Let's get to the back." He went to make his way through the carnage, but stopped when he found Grog wasn't following. Instead, the man was loading his shotgun.

"What the fuck're you doing?" Fjord hissed. "We can't fight them."

"I'll cover you." Grog closed the shotgun. There was a raging fire in his eyes. "You get out."

Fjord wanted to smack the man in the face. "This isn't a time for settling scores!" he spat, right before a second volley of bullets ripped through the saloon walls. Bottles exploded, scattering their contents on the floors. Fjord ducked under the counter until the bullets stopped again.

"STRONGJAW!!" Grog shouted as he charged out the door, firing his shotgun.

"Oh, for fuck's sake..." Fjord groaned, following him.

Kevdak's posse were scattered by Grog's volley. Up until now, they'd been atop their horses right in front of the door. Now, they kicked their mounts in different directions, leaving the one man Grog had killed bleeding in the dust. Grog fired again and a woman's back exploded in a shower of blood.

Fjord whipped out both pistols and fired in different directions. He didn't kill anybody, but it was enough to keep them at bay as Grog reloaded.

"I told you I'd cover you!" Grog shouted over the din.

"And I told you to go out the back with me," Fjord spat back, shooting the hat off a passing bandit. "Looks like we're both idiots."

Grog smirked as he closed the shotgun with a loud click. Then he jumped as a shot whizzed past his ear. During the commotion, some of Kevdak's men had kept their heads enough to find cover on the other side of the street.

"Go up top!" Grog shouted, rolling forward to dodge another shot. "Shoot out the windows!"

"You don't got enough range!" Fjord fired at a man who'd peaked out of cover. The man's cheek tore open, but he managed to scramble back to safety. "How're you supposed to hit anything?"

"By getting in their face!" Grog charged ahead, straight into the gunfire. Fjord just stared at him. Had he gone completely crazy? Then, a bullet nicked his ear and Fjord quickly retreated backwards towards the saloon, firing as he went. Once inside, he ran up the stairs and stationed himself by one of the broken windows overlooking the road. He popped up to get a look and was surprised to see that Grog was still standing. In fact, he was putting up a fight. One man lay on the ground, his head blown clean off. Grog was beating some poor bastard into the ground with the butt of his shotgun, holding it by the barrels and bringing it down with both hands.

Fjord saw one of Kevdak's men coming up behind Grog, his rifle pointed directly at him. Fjord fired at him, but missed just above his head. The sound was enough for Grog to turn around, but not enough to distract his assailant. The man fired a shot right into Grog's chest and the sound of it carried all the way across the road. Fjord's heart stopped; Grog was down for sure. However, instead of falling on his face in the dirt to bleed out, Grog wrenched the man's gun out of his hands, bent the barrel like a thin piece of wire and furiously snapped the man's neck with a loud cry of rage.

Fjord's mouth fell open. What the hell was this guy made of?

Grog walked away from the dead man, breathing heavily. His feet dragged under him and his wound was gushing, soaking his shirt and the front of his pants with blood. He stumbled and fell on his face in the dirt. Fjord listened; there was only the whistling of the wind. It seemed all Kevdak's men were dead.

Fjord ran downstairs and out to where Grog lay. With a great effort, Fjord pushed the big man on his back. His shirt was heavy with blood and the ground where he'd laid was stained with red. Fjord unbuttoned Grog's shirt to get a better look at the wound in his broad chest. The bullet had hit him just above the heart. A centimeter lower and he would've been gone for good. But the bullet was still in there and once the lead got into his system there wasn't anything he could do.

"Don't worry, Grog," Fjord told him, even as he reminded himself that Grog couldn't hear him. "I'm gonna find a doctor. We'll get the bullet outta ya, and we'll be back on the road. Right as rain."

The click of a hammer being pulled back drove all thoughts from Fjord's mind.

"Aww, that's cute," Kevdak mocked behind him. "Grog found himself a little half-breed to follow him around. Well, half-breed, I really can't have you going for no doctor. I never expected Groggy to wipe out all my men and I really don't want him to have the chance to do it again. And, honestly, I really don't wanna risk you coming after me, either."

The shot rattled Fjord's eardrums. The bullet ripped through his lung and grazed a rib as it went through. He coughed up blood as he went down, landing on top of Grog.

"There." Kevdak bent down so his scarred face was looking right into Fjord's. "Matching kill shots." He walked away. Fjord heard the galloping of hooves. He felt his body weakening, bit by bit, as the blood poured out of him. He saw a robed figured coming towards him as his world turned black.

"Vandren..." he whispered, before his eyes shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be going through this series one story at a time. So I'll be finishing this one before I move on to any of the others. It was just too hard alternating between them, adding one chapter at a time.


End file.
